Onrie The Dead Baker

Drama and Murder at the bakery

Onrie The Dead Baker As light follows dark, all things being equal, so is it here, for that which is about to unfold will be told for the good of the whole community without mercy, with as many facts memorable held intact for the occasion of the crime remembered. Nothing good can come from something bad. Honore or Onrie, as the locals called him, was a French pastry baker who worked downtown on fortieth street at a corner bakery and cafe; a discrete little sliver of the universe owned by him and his wife Fran. .  Someone shot him between the eyes with a low caliber hand gun this morning around 8:00 am. It is presumed that this same person of interest then cracked the poor man's skull open with a metal pipe. Who would do such a thing? Was it some disgruntled cruller eater or a former lover? Detectives swarmed on the scene dressed in their gray trench coats, arriving on queue at approximately 8:32 after the fact. A mousy looking woman in her thirties, walking in circles about the property, wearing her favorite tinted fur coat, was the closest thing to a witness they had so they went to work on her quite vigorously with a barrage of questions which evolved into a full fledged feast of an interrogation. As it turns out, there are steps to be taken by the authorities of righteousness to preserve the peace. Measured steps to be employed against evil must always be in full focus. We must always be ten steps ahead of our adversaries because evil never sleeps. Bad people are stronger than us by far and therefore should never be underestimated. The woman was timid, genuinely demure, reserve in her manners, gentle tempered and fragile on first observations so she was in total shock at what had happened. When all this attention rained down on her in the moment she literally lost her directions of what was up or down. Looking down at her former baker she frowned. She commented, “He looks much smaller than himself in this condition.” This comment raised eye brows from the inquisitors, so much so that a critical eye was cast in her direction to explore more. The lead detective Hans, took advantage of this peculiar comment by the woman and took her by the hand for questioning. He was of medium height and build. It was in everyone's best interest not to scare the petite woman to death by sending in the taller bull like interrogators to interview her. She would be less intimidated by one of the shorter, milder mannered men. Hans would do just fine. Sugar works better than vinegar when catching flies. If not for the large pointed nose and pursed lips, the witness, who goes by the name of Lilith, might have passed for attractive in some circles. This was not one of those circumstances. This was a serious police matter now so the lady was pressed like grapes for details like a fine aged wine. The fact is, she was the only witness to the crime. She lived near by. It was her constitution and habit to be the first customer of the day at the bakery. Long hot rolls, freshly baked, steaming morsels of heaven fresh from the oven, along with a marvelous marmalade pastry were her passion. A hot black coffee would make life perfect. These were the only true loves of her life. Warm sensuous aromas and delicious memories brought forth from the secret alchemy of a seasoned master of pastries and baked goods to transport her gentle soul back to her childhood and innocence of lost days. The detective was perplexed at the peculiar comment of the lady, “He looks much smaller than himself.” How can that be? How can he be taller or shorter than what he actually is, be it dead or alive? The smallish woman looked up at the official inquisitor with her beady eyes and sliver of a smile and said, “Sir, I have only seen Onrie in an upright position behind the counter in my entire life of knowing him.” “It is not like I've slept with the man or seen him reclining.” “I've only seen him vertical....never horizontal.” “Does that make any sense?” It was hard to surmise if the detective was shaking his head up and down or from side to side. Perhaps it was a diagonal movement, which only added to the confusion of the conversation or interrogation as it unfolded or collapsed upon itself depending on you perspective.  Not much was known about Onrie at first. Various preliminary reports came flooding in regarding him and his wife to the effect that they had come from Austria or Hungary at some point in the past. These “facts” turned out to be fictitious in nature, which is to be expected in such matters in their early stages of any investigation. It turns out that they both lived in downtown Paris, raised somewhere between the Champs-Elysee and Arc de Tiomphe de l'Etile. Their primary place of residence in France was in a town house situated through a narrow passage way of an alley. It was hidden in a network of row homes, a small complex just off Rue De Berrie.  They had only been in the states for a few years. Life was good. Life was profitable. Luck seemed to be always on their side when this tragic event came about without warning. Life is something that happens to us all while we are making plans to do something else. His wife Fran was fast asleep at the time of the incident, just above the shop in the small flat which was also owned by them.  Unfortunately the mousy lady did not see the actual crime as it unfolded. Most likely she happened upon the scene shortly afterwords, as she did not see or hear anyone coming or going on the premises. She was the one who placed the call to the authorities in the first place. The lead detective was scrutinizing the bakery meticulously and methodically for clues. Sweat was running down his face from the blazing heat coming from the back ovens, which were only doing their job but made for a very uncomfortable work condition for the men in this vile environment as they tried to conduct the required business at hand to the best of their abilities. One of the junior detectives grabbed for a bottle of water. He was about to guzzle it down when someone screamed, “Don't drink the water!” It was the lady in the fur coat voicing her opinion. Her voice carried larger than life, larger than what you might expect coming from someone with such a small frame, being generated from such a petite person. As a matter of fact Lilith startled everyone in attendance but she did get her point across.  The detectives were beginning to think they really were actually in France. The water there is black if you must know and if you have ever visited Paris. The tap water has a terrible odor too. The citizens there never drink it. Everything safe to drink comes from bottles for obvious reasons.  In this instance it was the opposite consideration. The tap water in most American communities is fine. It is safe to drink. Obviously that depends on your concept of safe. It is the bottled water being sold in this particular bakery that is in question. Fortunately for all concerned it was not on display to be sold to the general public but in storage in the back ready to be returned or thrown away. The lady had knowledge of this particular fact. She knew that the expiration dates on the bottled water had expired. It turned out to be true.  Onrie was about to throw it away or to get a refund from the distributor but he kept getting distracted by one thing or another. According to friends, family and customers, Onrie and Fran had a perfectly normal relationship and no enemies to speak of. The cash in the register had not been touched. His wallet and watch had not been taken. The brutality of the crime, the over kill, the savagery and anger displayed by the perpetrator was perplexing to all concerned. The quality of baked goods, the fine service by the employees and the history of the cafe and bakery in general gave no clues as to why the poor man was murdered. There was something missing. There appeared to be no motive as to why this happened or answers to explain these dire actions.  As law enforcement delved deeper into this case over a period of time, combing through the minutia, the ocean of details, they could come up with nothing new. No finger prints, no additional witnesses, no useful clues. It was a true mystery. The case may never be solved. One minute Onrie is living a perfectly ordinary life with an ordinary wife and job and the next minute, poof...No Onrie... no more. That seems to be how life really is.  A Break In The Case  Four years after the murder of Onrie, his wife was still working at the bakery. A strange man dressed in black, wearing a blue cap took a seat in the cafe section of the establishment. He was ill mannered, gave off a bad vibe, bad energy and it must be expressed, a bad odor too. He ordered a coffee and sweet roll from Fran. She noticed the cap. It was a simple thing but she knew in an instance that it was Onrie's. She had given it to him just before he flew to Paris to visit his ailing mother. That was several years ago. She had personally stitched a small “O” on the lower back center of the cap. She had her own unique style of cross hatching when she embroidered things. She turned red at this revelation and began to tremble with hostile anticipation while dialing 911 from a phone in the back of the shop. The stranger was only half way through his roll and coffee when he found himself handcuffed and dragged away by the police. The interrogation was intense. Law enforcement agents were anything but gentle and kind in this region towards brutal murdering types. It turns out that the man, who goes by the name, Omar, (not his real name) was the taxi cab driver who drove Onrie to the airport some years ago. The driver became angry with Onrie because he only gave him a $1.00 tip so he stole his blue cap as compensation. Onrie had a sentimental attachment to the cap since it was given to him by his wife and therefore insisted that the immigrant driver return it immediately or he would call the police and have the bum deported. As a rule Onrie was a very respectful and calm individual but when the taxi guy said that all French people are small and smell funny, he became filled with rage. He told the driver in no uncertain terms that his mother did and does some god awful things involving unnatural sexual activities with barn yard animals and he shouted obscenities and other un-pleasantries at Omar not to be mentioned here in this report.  In any event, things got out of hand and almost got violent. Since they were already parked at the front entrance of the airport and the security agents were approaching them with mean looks on their faces, Onrie, already in a rush, aware of the fact it was time for fight or flight, decided not to miss his flight so he had to leave the situation up in the air and the discussion abruptly ended that way. Things did not end for Mr. taxi driver man however. He had picked up Onrie at his bakery so it was an easy deduction to figure out what happened next. Omar fermented in his hate. He only had to be patient while stewing in his own personal misery outside the cafe one fine morning. He would wait with an animals lust for vengeance for his nemesis, for his enemy to return. It was as simple as that.  With the help of the cab company the detectives were able to find out that Omar was really Mohammad. They were able to obtain a warrant to search his apartment. More than enough evidence surfaced to get a conviction for the murder of the baker. Some things are better left unsaid. Onrie continues dead.